


If Music Be The Food of Love

by lupwned



Category: Ocean's (Movies), Ocean's 8, Ocean's Eight
Genre: A super tiny bit of angst when it's about their backstory but I promise it isn't a lot, Cooking, F/F, Feeding, Flirting, Food, Prompt Fic, Reunions, Romance, Sexual Tension, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-01 14:00:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15144626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupwned/pseuds/lupwned
Summary: “Christ, Lou, this is-” Debbie stops for another bite and moans in delight. “I might actually eat my vegetables if they were all like this.”Lou rolls her eyes. “You are such a child, you know that?”“Says the woman whose diet mainly consists of watered down vodka, cheap cigarettes and Red Hots.”





	1. Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the prompt: _Debbie teaches lou a family recipe cuz she keeps asking her to cook it for her. Debbie just wants any excuse to be in close proximity to lou. Both regret agreeing to this when lou has her back pressed against debbie and debbie has her arms around her cuz she keeps screwing up mixing the ingredients in the bowl. Both are hyper aware of the suffocating (in the best way) proximity which they craved, until one of them gives in._
> 
> I am switching this prompt up _just_ a bit from what was received, but I think you all will still enjoy it.

Debbie isn't used to the way mornings feel outside of jail. She isn't used to fresh cotton sheets, or the gentle sound of a table clock instead of the blaring sound of a security alarm. She isn't used to sleeping in past 6:30, or being able to take a shower – a _hot_ shower – at her own pace. And while she knows that, eventually, this routine will become commonplace with time, Debbie's not sure she'll ever get used to the smell of fresh coffee and breakfast that greets her each morning as she steps into the kitchen.

Somewhere between buying a loft and becoming the owner of a nightclub, Lou has learned to cook. Not just cook, but _cook_ – from scratch, with fresh ingredients, in ways that make Debbie's mouth water just thinking of it. It had taken Debbie by surprise her first morning back, but after a few weeks, she's fallen into the comfortable routine of sipping her coffee while quietly observing Lou as she shuffles back and forth at the stove and counter. She'd offer to help, but there's something ridiculously, unexplainably sexy about watching Lou create something marvelous out of the most basic of ingredients. The fact that she often does it wearing something sleeveless that shows off her arms doesn't hurt either.

Lou sets a plate down in front of Debbie and sits in the chair across from her with her elbows on the table. Her eyes are wide, rapt with anticipation. Under Lou's gaze, Debbie picks up the fork and stabs at the fluffy, yellow egg concoction. “Omelette?” she asks before bringing it to her lips.

“Yep. Green pepper, wilted spinach, cherry tomato, sauteed onion. Tried a mediterranean-spice feta blend this time too.” Lou cocks her head and smiles. “You like?”

“Christ, Lou, this is-” Debbie stops for another bite and moans in delight. “I might actually eat my vegetables if they were all like this.”

Lou rolls her eyes. “You are such a child, you know that?”

“Says the woman whose diet mainly consists of watered down vodka, cheap cigarettes and Red Hots.”

Lou sits quiet for a moment, then shrugs. “Touch _é_. Although I'll have you know with 32 million dollars in the bank, they're only _sorta_ cheap cigarettes and I've upgraded to Hot Tamales.”

“That's growth, Lou. I'm proud.”

They chuckle together until Debbie shifts her focus back to the plate in front of her. She's three-fourths of the way finished when she realizes that Lou hasn't eaten any of it. “Shit, I'm sorry,” Debbie apologizes. “Did you want some? I just assumed...”

Lou reaches out and wipes a bit of egg from the corner of Debbie's mouth. “Nope, all yours, love.”

For some reason she can't exactly put her finger on, Debbie feels a wave of guilt swirling in the pit of her stomach. “You don't have to do this, you know. I mean, I appreciate it but I don't want you to feel like-”

“Shhh. I like it.”

Debbie raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow and smiles.

“Don't read into it, Ocean. I figured you might enjoy a home cooked meal after five years of imitation beef.”

Debbie shudders. “Don't remind me.”

When the plate is empty, Lou picks it up and walks it over to the kitchen sink. Debbie follows her like a lovesick puppy dog, lifting herself onto the counter as she watches Lou sponge-wash the ceramic. “Mind if I join you?” she asks, her legs swinging back and forth as they dangle over the edge of the granite.

“What exactly have you done to deserve such an honor?” Lou teases with a wink. She pulls her wet hands from the sink and flicks a bit of water in Debbie's direction.

And six years ago, before any of this, before jail sentences and Claude Becker and even before they'd resigned to rigging Bingo as their primary means of survival, Debbie might have made a snarky, suggestive comment in response, about there being better things for Lou to do with her fingers, but things are different now, and as she watches Lou bounce around the kitchen, returning the carton of eggs, milk, and various bags of veggies to their places in the refrigerator, she admires her partner in a way she had never really before. “You're good to me Lou, you know that?” Debbie acknowledges, her voice soft.

“Dry this,” Lou instructs, ignoring her while holding out the wet plate and a hand towel. She's clearly avoiding the serious conversation, but Debbie's eyes – wide and dark – beg until she finally adds, “You'd do the same.”

It surprises her that Lou would say that, because if they're using history as a point of reference, she'd most definitely _not_ done the same. While Lou was there, finding them what little work she could, offering the hotel bed while she takes the chair, splitting their earnings 80 / 20 without asking _why_ Debbie suddenly needs $5000, _she_ was off schmoozing con artists who never treated her well, never treated her even close to the way Lou always has and always will.

“I could cook something for you some time,” Debbie offers, busying her nervous hands with the towel Lou's given her.

“And give you license to burn my kitchen down?” Lou mockingly scoffs. “Hell no.” But when Debbie slumps a bit – the rejection on her face is subtle, something that only Lou can pick up on – she backpedals and suggests an alternative. “How about you help me some time? I just put fresh batteries in the smoke detectors a few weeks ago so we'll be good and ready for any disaster you're inevitably going to cause.”

“So it's a date then?” Debbie hands Lou the now-dry plate to put away.

“Yeah, Deb. It's a date.”


	2. Lunch

Lou hates when the other team members call her whipped. It's not always right to her face, but she hears the giggles and the whispers when she's in the kitchen, trying a new recipe, a new spice blend, and dips her finger into the sauce to have Debbie take a taste. They comment how she never asks anyone else to try. But that's simply because they've known each other for so long, understand each other’s likes and dislikes. They're perfectly in-sync, and it has nothing to do with the way Lou's heart rate spikes when Debbie steps into the kitchen in the morning in a t-shirt and panties and nothing else, her long hair disheveled and _hot as hell_.

Lou sighs. As she hands a mug over to Debbie across the table, she realizes she's about as whipped as the cream she occasionally adds to the top of the sweet cup of peppermint-spiced coffee. Not that she would ever actually _admit_ that to anyone.

After the heist, the team doesn't see each other every day. Sometimes it's once a week, or once a month if they're particularly busy. Lou's always been a loner, but even she enjoys the company that comes along with a visit from her favorite criminals. Which is why she can't really complain when Constance shows up at the door one Saturday afternoon, with a smile on her face, a Starbucks coffee in her hand and a McDonalds bag in the other.

“Throw that shit away,” Lou demands. “I'll make you lunch.”

Within minutes, Daphne and Tammy and Amita arrive, and Lou wonders if this wasn't the plan all along. She doesn't complain, though. Cooking keeps her focused and busy, keeps her away from the temptation of pulling off little heists that would inevitably get her into trouble. She's the hands, but Debbie's the brains, and Debbie's kept mostly quiet about what her plans are for the future, which is equal parts scary and intriguing.

“Where's the wife?” Amita asks, sprawling out on the couch.

“Who?” Lou turns and peeks her head out from the refrigerator where she'd been gathering supplies.

“Debbie,” Constance elaborates, and her eye-roll can be practically _heard_ throughout the room.

“Not sure,” Lou answers honestly from the kitchen. She butters the backs of 10 pieces of bread and sets them evenly on a plate while she preps the rest of her ingredients – fresh avocado, aged white cheddar, and pre-cooked bacon, because while she loathes pre-cooked anything, she hadn't expected a gaggle of would-be felons to show up at her door for lunch. “And she's not my wife.”

“Suuuuuure,” Constance, Tammy, Daphne and Amita respond in unison.

“Do you make her coffee each morning?” Amita asks.

Lou places the first four pieces of bread into the pan heating on the stove. They begin browning with a delicious sizzle, almost delicious enough for her to ignore the team's incessant prying about her and Debbie's relationship. Almost.

“Sometimes.” Lou shrugs. “And sometimes she makes it for me. Why does that matter?”

Tammy snickers. “ _Right_. And do you cook for her?”

Lou slices thin strips of avocado on a cutting board, her back turned to the gossipy teenagers behind her. Because avocado doesn't talk back, doesn't tease her. “I'm cooking for you fools too, but I'm starting to regret that decision.”

“ _So married_ ,” Daphne says pointedly from her seat at the kitchen table, ignoring Lou's comment.

Within a few minutes' time, Lou's prepared five delicious looking grilled cheeses, each on their own bright colored plate. She carries them over to the table and calls the rest of the team in with a whistle. They like to tease, but when it comes to her food, they're at her beck and call with little backtalk.

“Can you have an orgasm from a sandwich?” Daphne comments with a mouthful of food. “Because this is.... _Christ_.”

“Why are there green things in my grilled cheese?” Constance asks, her face scrunched up.

“It's good for you. Eat it.”

Constance only pouts for a minute. After a tentative bite, she devours the whole thing.

They're a pain in the ass, but they're _her_ pains in the ass, and Lou feels a sense of pride watching the team eat her food. She leans back into her chair, content and fulfilled. Just as she's about to finally munch on the corner of her own sandwich, Debbie walks into the loft with several shopping bags in her hand and a smile on her face. She's dressed in a flowing orange and red sundress and a pair of matching sandals. There are diamond studs in her ears and her sunglasses are perched at the top of her head, and while the rest of the team practically ignores her entrance, focusing instead on the food in front of them, Lou is completely enraptured.

Fuck.

“Hi guys,” Debbie greets, stepping further into the loft. “What's up?”

“Not much,” Constance answers. “Lou made lunch.”

“Oh?” Debbie tosses her bags onto the couch and joins the team in the kitchen. There's the tiniest bit of disappointment on her face when she counts the number of plates and corresponding sandwiches, and while the rest of the team doesn't notice, Lou picks up on it immediately. On instinct, she stands from her chair and points to her plate. “Take mine.”

“No no,” Debbie protests, “it's ok. I'll grab some leftovers from the-”

“It's cool,” Lou interrupts with a shrug. “I think there's enough left to make another.” _There isn't._ “Enjoy.” She locks eyes with Amita, who simply smiles. Tammy winks at her. And Daphne mouths, “ _So. Married._ ”

Lou bites her lower lip. God, she is _so_ whipped.


	3. Dinner

It's miserably hot in the city the night before Lou's planned to leave for California. The team comes over for some drinks and goodbyes in the late afternoon, but by the early evening, it's just them again – Debbie and Lou, Lou and Debbie. Back to the original duo, back to before. Except nothing can really go back to the way it was, especially now that Lou is leaving, packing up her shit, mailing it to who knows where, and riding out west.

Debbie huffs, sprawled over the couch with a magazine in her hand that she's using as a makeshift fan. If it's difficult to heat a loft of this size, it's even harder to cool it, and while Lou seems impervious to the temperature (or at least, keeps her complaints to herself), Debbie is a special sort of cranky when it reaches anything over seventy-five degrees. She wipes away a bead of sweat trickling down the back of her neck and shifts, her skin sticky and uncomfortable against the faux-leather sofa.

And, maybe, just maybe, some of her mood has to do with the fact that her partner, her _best friend_ , has decided to move thousands of miles across the country and throw away everything they've been building, everything she's been trying to do to make up for six years ago. When Lou'd first mentioned California, she'd never actually expected her to go. Take a vacation? Sure. But this? Debbie's made it right and now Lou is _leaving_ , and that is worse than any uncomfortable heatwave.

There's shuffling in the other room, and Debbie doesn't need to look over to know what – or _who_ – is there. Instead, she pretends to focus on a tiny crack in the ceiling that she'd never noticed before. She has no real interest in it, but she's hot and grouchy and slightly heartbroken, and the last thing she wants to do is pick a fight with Lou on her last night in New York.

As though it senses Lou's near her, Debbie's stomach rumbles loudly.

“I can make you something,” Lou offers from the kitchen.

Debbie shrugs, but doesn't look over.

“You need to eat.” Now Lou's in front of her, and it's almost impossible for her not to steal her attention. “Come on. You owe me a dinner date.”

Debbie goes dead weight when Lou grabs her hand and tries to pull her off the couch. “If I remember correctly, _you_ are the one that owes _me_ that dinner date, Chef Boyardee.”

Lou doesn't appear as amused by her nickname.

“Plus, it's a million degrees in here.”

“So?” Lou finally stops her tugging and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Too hot to cook anything.”

“Now you're just fishing for excuses.”

And maybe she _is_ just looking for excuses to say no. Not because she doesn't want to, but because it makes the reality of goodbyes even harder. It's just one more memory to cram into her brain, to remember at three in the morning when she's alone and there isn't anyone in the bedroom next to hers playing video games on an old Nintendo 64, or finishing a crossword puzzle with those stupid, thick-rimmed black glasses on her face, or...

“Fine,” Debbie acquiesces.

“Can you peel a potato?”

“With my teeth, or?”

Lou rolls her eyes. With Debbie trudging behind her, she finds a metal peeler from the utensil drawer and hands it over. “Start peeling. This should be familiar to you.”

“That's the military,” Debbie corrects. “Not jail.”

“Close enough.” Within minutes, the snark shifts to a comfortable silence, with Debbie peeling six or so potatoes while Lou measures out a bit of flour within a mixing bowl. Just as Debbie finishes the last spud and throws it into a pot of water (per Lou's instruction), Lou adds 2 tablespoons of sour cream and three eggs to the flour. “Come here.” She wraps her fingers around Debbie's wrist and gently tugs her toward her. “Ever made pastry dough before?”

Debbie's expression is flat, with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “Do I _look_ like someone who has made pastry dough before?”

“Do _I_?” Lou winks.

“Touché.”

Debbie settles at the edge of the counter facing the bowl and with Lou's command, dips her hands in to begin mixing. She's hardly dainty, but the feeling of cold, raw anything makes Debbie want to gag just a little. Massaging the tips of her fingers around the raw egg, flour and sour cream, she begins to work the mixture into clumps until a body presses behind her and stops not just her hands, but her damned _heart_ in the process.

“I've seen you use those hands before. Mix it, for Christ's sake.” Lou takes it upon herself to show her how it's done, resting her own hands and arms over Debbie's as a guide. The synapses in Debbie's brain seem to misfire, and she simply stands there with her lips slightly parted, letting Lou work the slowly-forming dough between her palms. “A lot of recipes will say to use a mixer, but I find it's much better when I use my hands.” Lou's breath is hot on the back of Debbie's neck as she speaks, and _fucking hell,_ if it wasn't already stifling, Debbie's practically _burning_ now. “You get to know exactly what you're working with. Watch it shift and mold beneath your fingers.”

She's going to miss this. The closeness. The teasing. Their playful banter. “What am I going to do when you leave?” The tone of Debbie's voice is a little more sad than she'd intended.

“I dunno, but I plan to buy stock in Lean Cuisine and DiGiorno.”

If she wasn't covered in flour, she'd give Lou the finger.

“You know, there's a way for you to still have all of this.” Lou's nose brushes ever-so-gently against the side of Debbie's neck, almost by accident – _almost_.

“And how's that?”

Lou stops the motion of their hands and settles her lips right behind Debbie's ear. She steps forward, gently pressing their bodies as far against the counter as possible before speaking again. “You could come with me.”

The suggestion makes Debbie feel a little lightheaded. Or maybe that's just the tickle of Lou's mouth at the back of her neck. Ever since Lou'd announced her intent to move west, Debbie's waited for this moment. Over time, she'd assumed...well, maybe she was just getting what she deserved. But now Lou is standing behind her, hands laced together, lips ghosting against her skin, _finally_ asking. “I just figured...”

“Stop _figuring_ and say yes.”

She's trembling, and although Lou probably knows with her arms around her, Debbie tries her best to play it cool. “I'll have to check my schedule.”

“I've already packed you a bag.”

“You packed me a _bag_? How?”

“A shirt here. A dress there. You didn't even notice.”

Debbie laughs, a little teary-eyed. She turns her head to look over her shoulder, to look at Lou, who shifts to the side just a bit so they can see each other. There's a smudge of flour on Lou's cheek where a dimple would be, and if her hands weren't covered in dough...”You have shit on your face.”

Lou untangles their hands and runs a wet finger along Debbie's jaw. “So do you.”

Debbie wants to say something snarky in return, but her body moves on instinct instead, closing the gap between them to kiss Lou roughly, sloppily. In all the scenarios she's imagined in her head, it's never gone this way. They can't really touch, not with dough all over them, so Debbie uses her lips and tongue instead to make up for it, kissing her in a way that is so much more than a first kiss. It's not tentative, it's not exploratory, it's just needy and emotional and raw and decades in the making. “Do you mean it?” Debbie hums against Lou's lips in a moment apart, gasping for breath.

“You didn't have to wait for me to ask, Deb. You're always invited.”

Debbie grins. “Well, as long as you can promise me three meals a day and the occasional dessert, I suppose I'll come along for the ride.”

Lou snorts, shaking her head. “Always thinking about your stomach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First person to correctly guess what Lou and Debbie were making gets a Debbie x Lou one-shot based off of a prompt of their choosing ;) 
> 
> Comments make the author smile and inspire more. One more chapter left! I wonder what the theme of _that_ one will be........


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